


I Made a Promise to the Moon

by lionheart776



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:27:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24598249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lionheart776/pseuds/lionheart776
Summary: The information says they are Willa and Waverly Earp. It doesn’t indicate which girl is which, but you don’t need it to. It’s Waverly. You know. Waverly. You say her name aloud, trying out the feeling of it on your lips. It rolls easily off your tongue and a smile spreads across your face. You sit back and complete the rest of your shift, only one thing on your mind.Waverly.
Relationships: Waverly Earp & Wynonna Earp, Waverly Earp/Nicole Haught
Comments: 6
Kudos: 25





	1. Chapter 1

_**Waverly** _

  
“You drive like a grandma with a stick up her ass! Get out of my way, motherfucker!”

A smile spreads across your face as the wind blows through your hair from the open window next to you. Your sister, Wynonna, is in the driver seat next to you. She’s yelling at yet another driver passing by, taking out her anger from today’s earlier events. Well, ‘events’ is a loose term. Thinking about the day makes a bubble of laughter rise in your throat and escape from your mouth. Wynonna gives you the side-eye, but you can see a smile fighting for its place on her mouth. She reaches over and grabs your hand, squeezing it gently.

“I love you, baby girl, but this is bullshit!” she yells through the music on the radio.

“Wynonna, people die of starvation every day. This is the least of your worries,” you say, squeezing her hand back. She drops your hand with a scoff, placing it back on the steering wheel.

“Shorty’s no longer purchasing my favorite whiskey for sale anymore? Waverly, this should be everyone in this town’s worry.” You giggle because she’s right. “I can’t believe Shorty didn’t take me up on my offer. You hear me say I would buy any excess whiskey that’s not sold when they get another shipment in. He would be rolling in it!” Her eyes are wild, showing how passionate she is about the topic.

“Wynonna, he did take you up on that offer.” You glance pointedly through the back window into the bed of the truck, where 50 cases of Wynonna’s favorite whiskey sit. Its a Highland Park scotch whiskey that you yourself do not personally care for. The new brand Shorty’s is purchasing is another scotch whiskey, just a lower price. You like this one better, to which Wynonna says, “That’s not the Earp thing to say, baby girl,” with a stern, but jokingly so, face. The Highland Park is richer in flavor, and surprisingly your town can’t handle it. So, Shorty complied, and it will be better for his wallet anyway. You know, because you helped him make the decision.

“Not necessarily,” Wynonna argues, snapping you away from your thoughts. “This was a one-time thing. If he had continued to purchase, so would have I. He just sold me the rest of his inventory to make room for the new order.” She’s pouting her lip, which makes you smile more, but you try not to show it.

“You’ve got enough to last you for at least a year, Wynonna. I think it’ll be okay.” She gives you a look because she knows you're right. She opens her mouth either to agree or argue, you’re not sure, because her eyes glance towards the review mirror and she says “Oh, shit” instead. You follow her gaze and notice the red and blue flashing lights on the road behind you. You shake your head because as often as this happens, Wynonna rarely gets a ticket. When you are as hot as Wynonna and all the cops in town are young men, it tends to work that way.

Wynonna pulls off onto the side of the road and places the truck in park. “Please don’t be Nedley. Please don’t be Nedley. Please don’t be Nedley,” she chants lowly, crossing her fingers and squeezing her eyes shut.

“Wynonna, you know Sheriff Nedley won’t be out patrolling,” you say, rolling your eyes. Secretly you think her childish ritual is endearing, a faint memory from your own childhood with this woman sitting next to you.

“Hush. I’ve done this every time and it’s never failed.” She continues on under her breath, and you look behind you to see who is getting out of the squad car. To your surprise, it’s not a cop you’ve seen in Purgatory before. It’s the bright, red hair under the Stetson hat that gives it away. This means that to Wynonna’s relief, it’s not Nedley, and you tell her that.

“Told you it works,” she smirks. She tugs at her shirt to reveal more cleavage and quickly fixes her hair in the mirror.

“License and registration, ma’am?”

You look up, surprised that the voice has come from a woman. Purgatory’s first female cop. “Good job, Nedley,” you think. You realize then, that Wynonna may not actually get out of this ticket. You watch the cop to try and study her body language as she checks the documents Wynonna has handed over.

“Ah. Wynonna Earp. I’ve heard your name around the station. You’re a very popular girl amongst the officers,” she says. Wynonna smirks and flips her hair in response. “Do you know how fast you were going, Wynonna? This area is a 55, and you were going 70,” she continues. Wynonna’s face falls. The officer’s eyes flash back up at Wynonna, and then she realizes you are in the car for the first time. Her eyes land on you and stay there for quite some time, a smile spreading slowly across her face, revealing deep dimples. You blush under her gaze, but your eyes lock with hers, refusing to look away.

“Umm, hello?” Wynonna says, glancing back and forth between you and the officer. You’re snapped out of your trance, as is the officer, and she clears her throat. Wynonna chuckles and says “I’m really sorry, officer. I wasn’t paying attention. My sister, here, has had a long day of work and is just begging to get home.” You start to protest her using you as an excuse, but Wynonna pinches your arm out of sight from the officer.

“Where is it that you work, miss?” the officer asks. You can tell by her expression that she doesn’t believe Wynonna, but is going along with it for now.

You start to speak, but your voice catches in your throat and you cough. Wynonna gives you a weird look and a gesture that says, “Get on with it.”

“I work at Shorty’s Saloon. I’m a bartender,” you finally manage. “We…uh…we are changing up inventory. Making some cost cuts to keep the bar running.” Wynonna sighs with relief next to you, grateful that you didn’t say anything to go against her lie. She should know you wouldn’t. She’s your best friend.

“Ah. I was wondering about all the alcohol in the back. I’m assuming that’s part of your job? Well, as long as it’s not consumed while you’re driving, of course, then that’s alright,” she smiles at you, a genuine, eager smile. Your heart flutters and your hand nervously reaches up to push a hair out of your face that isn’t there. “You must be exhausted. I’ve only been in this town a couple of weeks and I can already tell the drinkers must be rowdy. You’re a real angel for putting up with them all at the bar, I’m sure.” You smile and glance at Wynonna, who has an incredulous look on her face. “You’re free to go, as long as Wynonna promises to slow down. Can’t rest and wake up to do the good work again if you are dead.” She gives a pointed look to Wynonna as she says this, and then her face softens into a smile as she looks back at you.

“Yeah, sure, officer. Thanks,” Wynonna says, accepting her documents back and putting them where they belong.” The officer tips her hat and retreats back to her car. Wynonna huffs and looks at you. “What was that?”

“What do you mean, ‘what was that’?” you reply, suddenly embarrassed.

“Officer Dimples over here was flirting with you, and you were totally into it,” Wynonna says, a smirk creeping onto her face. Now it’s your turn to huff, and you cross your arms and look out the window.

“I have a boyfriend, Wynonna. Anyway, can you just drive? I’m supposed to be tired, remember?” Wynonna complies, and the car begins to roll forward. You watch the cop car pull a U-turn in the side mirror, and you can’t help but smile at the butterflies that form in your stomach as you think about her.

_**Nicole** _

It's your first day patrolling on your own since starting this new job at the Purgatory Police Department. You’ve had to do ride-alongs with Lonnie to ‘get acquainted with the town’ as Sheriff Nedley put it. You didn’t mind too much, but are excited to be out on your own. This was the town that you felt a calling to, and now you are finally out protecting it. Your patrol today is near the edge of town, on a stretch of backroads that Nedley says is prone to speeders. Lonnie showed you the good hide-out place, but you don’t think it's fair to hide from the drivers. You scout out a place where you believe you will be well seen but out of the way and park your car. You sit back and wait, the occasional car coming by. Most are speeding, but only 5 or so over the limit, so you don’t worry too much. You aren’t parked long before a blue and white striped truck comes barrelling down the road, music spilling out of its open window. You clock it going 70, and sigh. You turn on your lights and put the car into drive, pulling out of your parking spot. You catch up to the car, and it slowly pulls over to the side. You grab your Stetson from the seat next to you and place it on your head as you step out of the car and walk up to the truck’s window. As you approach the car, you notice the bed of the truck is filled with crates and crates of alcohol. You begin to worry that this will be a drunk driving situation and brace yourself for what may happen.

“License and registration, ma’am?” you say, as you look into the car. The driver is a woman, most likely in her 30’s, with long, dark hair and bright, clear, blue eyes. You release the tension in your body when you notice how alert her eyes are, and she easily hands over the correct documents. You take the small cards in your hand and check out the license first. The name on the card is not a new name to you. You’ve heard it many times from the officers at the station. How hot she is. How she gets away with everything. How easy it is to get her into bed. You feel a bit sorry for her, knowing having such a reputation can be difficult for someone. But you’re also determined not to let her get away with breaking the law, as so many others have done in the past. People need to understand the consequences of their actions. And Wynonna’s consequence would be a speeding ticket.

“Ah. Wynonna Earp. I’ve heard your name around the station. You’re a very popular girl amongst the officers,” you comment. You watch as Wynonna smirks and flips her hair in response. Your sorrow for her fades immediately, as you realize she is quite proud of the reputation she carries. To each their own, you suppose. “Do you know how fast you were going, Wynonna? This area is a 55, and you were going 70,” you continue. Wynonna’s face falls as she realizes she won’t be getting out of a ticket like she does with your male coworkers. That’s what you think, too, until you realize there is another person in the car. You’re taken aback by her appearance. She’s younger than Wynonna, perhaps early 20’s. She’s got long, golden-brown hair that’s laid so perfectly around her face. Her eyes are a curious color of hazel, and you get lost in them easily. You notice her face flush with color, but her eyes remain on yours.

You don’t realize how many moments have passed until you hear Wynonna say: “Umm, hello?” as she looks between you and the other girl. You take a slight step back from the car, and clear your throat, suddenly at a loss for words. The academy doesn’t train you for seeing the most beautiful woman alive while on the job. You hear Wynonna laugh slightly, and say “I’m really sorry, officer. I wasn’t paying attention. My sister, here, has had a long day of work and is just begging to get home.” You know, easily, that this is a flat out lie. But you look at the girl in the passenger seat, Wynonna’s sister, you have learned, and all your cares in the world fly away.

Before you can even think, you find yourself saying: “Where is it that you work, miss?” You genuinely want to know, so the question isn’t that out of character.

The girl coughs, before replying, “I work at Shorty’s Saloon. I’m a bartender. We…uh…we are changing up inventory. Making some cost cuts to keep the bar running.” You nod in understanding of the contents in the back of the truck. You also make a mental note to visit Shorty’s Saloon when you aren’t working. You’re not much of a drinker, but any excuse to see her again.

“Ah. I was wondering about all the alcohol in the back. I’m assuming that’s part of your job? Well, as long as it’s not consumed while you’re driving, of course, then that’s alright,” you say, offering a smile. “You must be exhausted. I’ve only been in this town for a couple of weeks and I can already tell the drinkers must be rowdy. You’re a real angel for putting up with them all at the bar, I’m sure.” This is true. You’ve heard multiple calls come in from Shorty’s, of scruffs between patrons that needed police intervention. You’ve never had to respond to one, not yet at least. Now, you hope you get the call for one. The girl smiles at you, and your stomach begins to do flips. “You’re free to go, as long as Wynonna promises to slow down. Can’t rest and wake up to do the good work again if you are dead.” You give a pointed look to Wynonna, and then another easy smile to her sister. Please be careful, you think. If you don’t ever get to see that face again, there will be hell to pay.

“Yeah, sure, officer. Thanks,” Wynonna says. You tip your hat and walk back to your car, your knees a bit unsteady from the encounter. When you finally reach your patrol car and climb inside, you breathe a sigh of relief. You realize your palms are sweating and rub them on the ugly khakis that Nedley insists everyone wears. You squeeze your eyes shut for a moment, willing your heart rate to slow down. You hear the music from the truck start back up again, and the gravel crunch under its tires as it pulls away. You start your own car and turn around to head back to the parking spot you originally staked out in. As you work, and clock more cars going by, none of which warrant being pulled over, you can’t stop thinking about Wynonna’s sister. You mentally slap yourself for not asking for her name and realize you didn’t introduce yourself either. You sigh and slump back in your seat, but then realize you have the ability to find out this information right in front of you. You pull out your company-issued laptop and type Wynonna’s name into the database. Unsurprisingly, it’s easy to find her. She’s had multiple run-ins with the police – speeding, public intoxication, assault charges from bar fights – all of which have been dropped. You click around, and finally, find what you are looking for. The public database pulls up a picture of Wynonna and two other girls. The information says they are Willa and Waverly Earp. It doesn’t indicate which girl is which, but you don’t need it to. It’s Waverly. You know. Waverly. You say her name aloud, trying out the feeling of it on your lips. It rolls easily off your tongue and a smile spreads across your face. You sit back and complete the rest of your shift, only one thing on your mind.

Waverly.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You don’t realize Wynonna has run off with Doc until the door opens, a cold burst of air hitting you in the back. You shiver and collect the glasses they’ve left behind. Someone else replaces their presence, and you don’t need to look up to see who it is. The atmosphere in the room changes and your heart quickens its pace. You’ve only felt this air once before in your life. Yesterday, in the car with Wynonna. Your palms begin to sweat, and you rush to put the glasses in the sink, but fail to make it in time before they crash to the ground, the loud, shattering sound of breaking glass filling your ears.

_**Waverly** _

“How’s it going today, Doc?” you say cheerfully as you slide a glass of rum and coke to the man sitting across the counter from you.

“Oh, well, it’s going, love,” he says in his gravelly voice, taking a swig of his drink. He tips his hat towards you, and you smile at the familiar gesture.

John Henry Holliday, or more familiarly known as Doc, has been a patron of Shorty’s for longer than you’ve been old enough to work there. You leave him to clean up after the other patrons, the lunch crowd finally starting to thin out. You happily grab the large tip the York brothers have left for you, not lost on the fact that it’s their attempt at flirting. You’re not interested in them, especially knowing they’ve both slept with Wynonna, but you definitely don’t mind the frequent bonuses to your bank account. You wipe the condensation off the counter just in time for Wynonna to slide down it without getting her pants wet.

“Hey, baby girl,” she beams, as she hops off the counter and grabs herself a glass, filling it to the brim with beer. You whack her in the butt with your towel, a sign of protest against her breaking the rules.

“Not nice,” she complains. “You know Shorty doesn’t care. He loves me.” She takes a sip.

“Shorty loves _me_. That’s why he allows it,” you correct her, raising one eyebrow. “You cause the police to be called here regularly. You’re lucky he hasn’t banned you.”

She grins and wiggles her head in a little dance. Not a care in the world.

You envy her sometimes, your sister. She’s strong, and brave, and beautiful, and oh, so sure of herself.

You, on the other hand, care so much that sometimes it’s exhausting. You want to please people. You don’t see it as a bad thing, but you feel guilty when you can’t give all the time. You sigh, lost in your thoughts.

You don’t realize Wynonna has run off with Doc until the door opens, a cold burst of air hitting you in the back. You shiver and collect the glasses they’ve left behind. Someone else replaces their presence, and you don’t need to look up to see who it is. The atmosphere in the room changes and your heart quickens its pace. You’ve only felt this air once before in your life. Yesterday, in the car with Wynonna. Your palms begin to sweat, and you rush to put the glasses in the sink, but fail to make it in time before they crash to the ground, the loud, shattering sound of breaking glass filling your ears.

(You goddamn idiot.)

You curse under your breath as you crouch to pick up the pieces and become very aware of the presence next to you.

“Oh, no. Let me help you,” she says.

She grabs the broom that is kept behind the bar and starts sweeping up the pieces. You’re frozen in place, your face red, and she notices.

She places the broom aside, and crouches down in front of you, her face inches from yours. She has a slight smile on her face, her eyes bright and cheerful. “It’s okay,” she says. “No one else saw. I’m the only one in here, you don’t need to be embarrassed.” She’s mistaken the spell she has you under as embarrassment.

How cute.

You study her red hair, stark against her dark police uniform top. She reaches for your hand to help you up, and that’s when you both notice the blood.

“There’s a…um…med kit…under the sink,” you manage out between shocked breaths.

You hadn’t even noticed the pain.

You squeeze your eyes shut, not wanting to look at the thick slice of glass lodged in the center of your palm. She’s back with the medkit before you even knew she left, and her gentle hands lead you to sit on the ground, your back against the wall of the counter. She uses the tweezers to easily remove the glass and then cleans the wound with some antiseptic. It stings, and she squeezes your hand gently in empathy. The sting is replaced with butterflies swarming your stomach. You finally manage to open your eyes and see her concentrating on placing butterfly plasters neatly in a row on your palm. She then wraps your hand in gauze, finished with a small piece of medical tape.

“All better,” she says with a smile, looking up from your hand and into your eyes. You swallow, at a loss for words. Finally, you manage:

“You smell like vanilla dipped donuts.”

(What the fudge?)

She tilts her head, her dimples popping onto her face with a confused smile. “Did you hit your head on the way down?”

“Uh, no, sorry,” you say, flustered. You pause. “Thank you. For taking care of me. You didn’t have to do that.”

“It’s my pleasure. Besides, first aid is something we were taught at the academy,” she replies, wiping her hands on a towel as she stands up. She offers a hand to you, and you take it in your non-injured one. You rise to your full height, your hand lingering in hers. “I’m Nicole, by the way. Nicole Haught.”

“Waverly,” you say, with a shy smile.

“Well, Waverly. I’m glad to see Wynonna got you home safe yesterday,” she says with a wink.

Your heart flutters when she says your name, and your knees visibly grow weak as you fall back into the counter. She flies the short distance between the two of you and steadies you with her arms. Your skin buzzes with electricity where hers makes contact, and you wonder if she feels it too. You shake your head. It’s just the blood loss getting to you.

“I’m okay. I’m okay,” you say, as she leads you to one of the stools on the other side of the counter.

You notice how strong her arms are, as they wrap tightly around you, making sure you don’t fall. You notice how smooth the skin on her face is, and how much you want to touch it. You notice her pink lips, full and luscious, and think about how much you want to…

Yeah, it's definitely the blood loss.

There’s no other logical explanation for why you’d be feeling this way. (At least that’s what you try to tell yourself.)

“You sit, and drink this,” she says, handing you a bottle of water that she pulled out of the fridge. You take a sip of the ice-cold water, reveling in the way it feels against your dry throat. You watch as she sweeps up the remaining glass, and then wipes the blood off the floor with a towel. She does it so effortlessly, and with a smile on her face.

“You really didn’t have to do that,” you find yourself saying again, as she finishes.

“I’m happy to help,” she says as she walks around the counter and grabs the seat next to yours. She rests her elbows on the counter and sighs, looking at you. “So, Waverly Earp, tell me about yourself.”

You’re suddenly the most boring person on earth and can’t think of a single interesting thing about yourself. She notices your hesitation, and spins in her seat, placing a hand on your arm.

You try not to notice that electric feeling again.

“Well, I’ll start with the basics. I’m Nicole Haught. I’m 26 years old. I just moved here about a month ago, from Vancouver. I have a cat; her name is Calamity Jane. I’ve got no siblings, and my parents are the worst, so I’m kind of just making it out here on my own,” she says.

You watch her mouth carefully as it speaks, the words pouring through her lips with ease. You don’t want her to stop talking, don’t want that smooth, friendly voice to stop hitting your eardrums. You want to know more about her, everything there is possible to know. As if she’s read your mind, she says:

“Don’t worry. We’ll have plenty of time in the future to really get into each other.” She smirks, her choice of words not lost on you. You feel your face grow red, and she tightens her grip on your arm. “Your turn.”

“Ummm, well. I’m Waverly. Waverly Earp. I’m 21, and I’ve lived in the Ghost River Triangle my whole life. No pets, but I am an animal lover. I’ve got two sisters. You’ve met Wynonna. My other sister is Willa, and we don’t really talk about her much,” you ramble. She’s listening intently, taking in every word you say and seemingly storing it for future use.

“Parents?” she asks. You cringe. “Sorry, rough subject?”

“A little. It’s okay. Mama left when I was 3, and Daddy died not long after. It’s mostly just been me and Wynonna.” You swallow the lump in your throat. It’s been over half your life, and while you don’t really remember either of your parents, their absence still pains you.

Wynonna makes sure you know all the good stuff, even though there was so much bad.

Nicole seems to notice your discomfort, and her hand slides down from your arm and she lightly touches your palm. You look up and catch her eyes, concern written on her face. “I’m sorry to have said anything.”

You laugh lightly and offer her a smile. “Don’t worry about it. It’s been years.”

“Doesn’t mean it can’t still hurt.”

You sigh and shift in your seat.

(Now is not the time, Waverly.)

You shake your head, freeing it of thoughts. You can feel her eyes searching you, studying every inch of your face, your expressions. You want to meet her gaze but fear the consequences.

“How are you liking Purgatory?” you say instead and reach for your bottle of water.

“I’m liking it a lot more now that I’ve met you,” she says with a wink.

You choke on your water and are grateful you had only taken a sip. You finally look at her and she’s smiling, the left side of her lip curling slightly more than the right.

Who in God’s Earth is this woman? Where did she come from and why is she so keen with you, Waverly Earp?

And why are you so spellbound with her?

“New friends are always welcome,” you say honestly, offering a smile. “Besides, I owe you for taking care of me earlier.”

“Alright, well. I have to get back to work soon. But, how about tonight? You can take me for coffee. Does 5 o’clock work?”

God, the butterflies in your stomach must have reproduced since she’s been here. There’s a swarm now.

She’s looking at you, patiently waiting for you to answer. You’re about to open your mouth and let through whatever words happen to fall out, but your phone starts buzzing in your back pocket. You reach for it with your good hand and cringe as soon as you see the caller I.D.

Champ.

How did you forget you have a boyfriend?

“I’m so sorry. I would, but I was just reminded that I have a date tonight…with my…boyfriend,” you say, stumbling over those last few words.

You try not to notice the way her face falls, and how she tries her hardest to not let her disappointment show.

“Riiight. I’ve been there. Worst time of my life,” she says, a hint of a smile on her face. You’re relieved slightly that you haven’t ruined the whole ordeal, because you certainly would like this woman in your life. Something tells you she needs to be in your life. “Well, I better head back to work.”

She grabs her Stetson off the counter and places it on her head with one hand. “I’ll see you around, Waverly,” she says as she rises from her seat. You watch her walk to the door, and marvel in the way those khakis are tight around her…

“Nicole, wait,” you say, rising from your own seat, but your feet are frozen to the floor, preventing you from carrying yourself towards her. She turns and looks at you expectantly. It’s the first time you’ve said her name, and it tastes delicious on your tongue. “I would love to get you coffee sometime. I wasn’t lying when I said new friends are always welcome.”

“Of course, Waverly. Anything you want.” She tips her hat and pushes through the door.

As soon as the door shuts behind her, you suddenly feel lonely. The loneliest you’ve ever felt in your life.

You sulk back around the bar just as Rosita shows up to replace you. You breathe a sigh of relief and grab your bag. You hop in your jeep and start the drive to the homestead to get ready for the date that you suddenly no longer have any interest in.

_**Nicole** _

You haven’t been able to stop thinking about her since yesterday. You believe Wynonna got them home safely, as no calls had come in for a wreck. You glance at the clock again, as you’ve done twenty times in the past five minutes. (Not to mention how many times you’ve looked at it all throughout the morning, just waiting for your lunch hour.)

But this time as you look, your heart leaps. You throw your pen down on the desk and push back in your chair with such force that the wheels make a loud screeching noise as they roll.

Lonnie looks up from his paperwork, giving you an annoyed look. Normally you would apologize, but today you don’t care. You have somewhere you need to be.

Someone you need to see.

You run out of the station and hop in your squad car. You pull out of the parking lot and head in the direction of Shorty’s. You don’t even know if she’s working, but you have to try.

Your insides feel like they are on fire as you pull into the lot at Shorty’s. You check yourself in the sun visor mirror and grab your hat from the seat next to you. Your heart is racing and you’re not quite sure why. You’ve dated plenty of girls before, but none of them have made you feel this in the clouds before.

(And you barely even know her, weirdo.)

You take a deep breath and step out of your car, quickly walking the short distance to the entrance. Right as you’re about to grab the handle, the door flies open and Wynonna comes spilling out with a man who looks like he belongs in the Old West. You tip your hats at each other and glide through the entrance before the door has a chance to swing closed.

You’re frozen in place as your eyes drink in the sight of her. She’s facing the other side of the room, and you long to run your fingers through her long, golden-brown hair cascading down her back. She has half of it tied up in a little bun on the top of her head. You’re about to say hello when the sound of breaking glass fills the air.

You rush to her side, your feet finally able to move.

“Oh, no. Let me help you,” you say.

You scan the bar and notice a broom leaning against the counter. You grab it and start sweeping up the pieces, making sure to get in each corner or crack in the floor. You’ve got a nice pile, and are about to sweep it into the dustpan when you realize Waverly hasn’t moved an inch. She’s crouched on the ground, her face red. 

You place the broom aside, and crouch down in front of her, trying to get her to look into your face. You offer her a slight smile, assuming she’s embarrassed for breaking the glasses.

“It’s okay,” you say. “No one else saw. I’m the only one in here, you don’t need to be embarrassed.”

You reach for her hand to help her to her feet, and as she opens her palm to take it, blood starts pouring to the ground.

“There’s a…um…med kit…under the sink,” she says, after a beat.

You run the short distance to the sink and grab the first aid kit Waverly promised was there. You open it and grab the tweezers. You gently grab her arm and lead her towards the counter so that she can rest her weight on it. You study her palm and there’s a large shard of glass wedged right in the middle of it. You wince, not wanting to know what kind of pain she must be experiencing. She shuts her eyes as you remove the piece of glass, and you’re grateful that it didn’t break into smaller pieces. You grab the antiseptic and cleanse the wound. You check for more glass now that the blood has cleared and are happy to find none. You grab the butterfly bandages from the kit and use them to pull the two sides of her skin together. Satisfied that it will hold, you wrap her hand with gauze and secure it with a small piece of medical tape. 

“All better,” you say with a smile, looking up from her hand and into her eyes.

Waverly is quiet for a moment as you look at each other. She seems to be thinking, and she opens her mouth to speak. You expect her to thank you, as almost anyone would in this situation. But the words that come out of her mouth make you feel warmer inside than any “thank you” could.

“You smell like vanilla dipped donuts.”

You’re not entirely sure what it means. But you do know that it makes you feel all warm and fuzzy inside, and it’s the best damn compliment you’ve ever received.

“Did you hit your head on the way down?” you ask, offering her a bright smile.

“Uh, no, sorry,” she says, suddenly flustered. She pauses. “Thank you. For taking care of me. You didn’t have to do that.”

Of course you did. You don’t just watch an angel get hurt and not help them.

“It’s my pleasure. Besides, first aid is something we were taught at the academy,” you say, wiping your hands on a towel. Even if you hadn’t been taught it, you still would have helped. You rise to your full height and offer your hand to Waverly once again. She takes it in her non-injured hand, and you pull her up on her feet.

“I’m Nicole, by the way. Nicole Haught.”

Your hand is still in hers.

“Waverly,” she says, with a shy smile.

You pretend you don’t already know that.

“Well, Waverly. I’m glad to see Wynonna got you home safe yesterday,” you say with a wink.

You watch the color drain from her face as she starts falling backward. Thankfully, the counter catches her fall, but you run to her side anyway and hold her steady with your arms wrapped tightly around her. Your skin burns on contact with hers. A very, very good burn.

Does she feel it too?

“I’m okay. I’m okay,” she says. You lead her around the counter and help her up onto one of the stools.

Your faces are close, and you wonder what she’s thinking.

You hope she’s thinking about how much she wants to kiss you, too.

You release her and walk back around behind the bar. You grab a bottle of water from the fridge and hand it to her. “You sit, and drink this.”

You clean up the rest of the mess as Waverly sips her water. You’re quite aware of her eyes on you, and it makes you smile.

“You really didn’t have to do that,” she says, for a second time.

“I’m happy to help,” you admit as you return to her side of the counter and grab the seat next to her. You’ve still got some time left on your break, and you’re going to use it wisely.

“So, Waverly Earp, tell me about yourself.”

You wait for her to answer, but she seems stumped. You spin in your seat and instinctively place your hand on your arm. She flinches ever so slightly, and you try to remove your hand, but it seems glued there by the universe.

Don’t be dramatic, Haught. 

“Well, I’ll start with the basics. I’m Nicole Haught. I’m 26 years old. I just moved here about a month ago, from Vancouver. I have a cat, her name is Calamity Jane. I’ve got no siblings, and my parents are the worst, so I’m kind of just making it out here on my own,” you say. You hope your openness will help her feel more comfortable. You want to know everything about her.

A glint in her eyes tells you she feels the same way.

“Don’t worry. We’ll have plenty of time in the future to really get into each other.”

(Are you serious?)

Her face grows red, and you try not to laugh. Your grip on her arm tightens ever so slightly. “Your turn.” Finally, she speaks.

“Ummm, well. I’m Waverly. Waverly Earp. I’m 21, and I’ve lived in the Ghost River Triangle my whole life. No pets, but I am an animal lover. I’ve got two sisters. You’ve met Wynonna. My other sister is Willa, and we don’t really talk about her much,” she says. You listen eagerly, drinking in every drop of information she gives you. 

“Parents?” you ask. She cringes. Shit. “Sorry, rough subject?”

“A little. It’s okay. Mama left when I was 3, and Daddy died not long after. It’s mostly just been me and Wynonna.”

You feel a strong sense of sorrow flowing from her, understanding that this has been a painful part of her life. Your hand slides down to her open palm, and you let your fingers rest there. “I’m sorry to have said anything.”

She laughs sadly, and says, “Don’t worry about it. It’s been years.”

“Doesn’t mean it can’t still hurt.”

You’re quite aware of the pain of losing your parents. Yours aren’t dead, but they might as well be.

It’s quiet for a moment, both of you lost in your own thoughts. Finally, she breaks the silence.

“How are you liking Purgatory?”

“I’m liking it a lot more now that I’ve met you,” she says with a wink in an attempt to lighten the mood.

She coughs. “New friends are always welcome,” she says, smiling at you. “Besides, I owe you for taking care of me earlier.”

Your heart skips a beat.

“Alright, well. I have to get back to work soon. But, how about tonight? You can take me for coffee. Does 5 o’clock work?”

She’s about to speak, about to tell you yes. (You can just feel it.)

And then, her damned phone rings, and her face falls.

“I’m so sorry. I would, but I was just reminded that I have a date tonight…with my…boyfriend,” she says, avoiding eye contact.

A pit forms in your stomach, and you try not to let the disappointment show on your face.

You fail, but at least you tried.

But you know that there is a connection here, and you’re not about to give up on that.

“Riiight. I’ve been there. Worst time of my life,” you say, giving her a soft smile. You look at your watch and notice the time. “Well, I better head back to work.”

You grab your Stetson off the counter and place it on your head with one hand. “I’ll see you around, Waverly,” you say as you stand up. You walk to the door and her eyes burn a hole in your back.

“Nicole, wait.”

You turn, reveling in the sound of your name on her lips.

“I would love to get you coffee sometime. I wasn’t lying when I said new friends are always welcome.”

Friends.

“Of course, Waverly. Anything you want.” You tip your hat towards her and push through the door.

You sulk back to your squad car and slam the door shut once you get inside. The last thing you want to do right now is go back to work, but you know you have to.

Her having a boyfriend was not something you really accounted for, and now your game plan has to change. There was undeniable chemistry between the two of you, and it’s not something you’ll be able to easily ignore. But, if Waverly wants to be friends, then so be it. You’re not going to ask her to be something she’s not. 

(Even though you’re pretty sure she is.)

When it comes down to it, there’s really only one thing you need: for Waverly Earp to be in your life.

Even if it’s just as friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoy the next chapter. Let me know what you think! <3


End file.
